No Holds Barred
by BipolarMolar
Summary: Complete One-shot. After Sherlock's death, John is struggling to cope but everything changes when he comes home to find Moriarty's right-hand man, Sebastian Moran waiting for him. There's something about the arrogant, handsome man that brings out the best in John. or the worst. Slash, fight!sex. Read and review.


**Title: No Holds Barred**

**Author: BipolarMolar**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Sherlock.**

The shopping bags rustled in an irritating rhythm as John made his way to 221B Baker Street. Outside the flat lay a handsome wreath of red roses, and an array of cards, tattered and damp by last week's rain. As John got closer, he could read them, although he already had them memorised by now.

**I believe in Sherlock. **

**Sherlock Holmes was real. **

**Justice for Sherlock.**

It had been a while since John had awoken to find these anonymous tributes, left by fans or past clients, for the deceased detective. Mycroft had said something, in a neat little bistro two months ago, that John now always thought of when he saw this bedraggled display. Mycroft had been sitting across from John, his umbrella hanging off the back of the flimsy wicker chair, the sun shining on his face and he'd said "People will lose all courage and conviction if you give them enough time, John." And it was true. Sherlock's name had gradually faded from the papers over the last couple of years, the story had died and the world had moved on. All except for Dr John Watson.

Reaching for his key with the bags hanging on the crook of his elbow, John paused for a moment, staring at the door. He sometimes had moments like this (perhaps Sherlock had had more of an effect on him than he'd realised) when his mind would just _click_, his own deductions running through his brain as if on autopilot, as if Sherlock Holmes himself were whispering them in his ear. So now, staring at the door, he knew something was wrong but couldn't quite-

Scratches on the lock. Neither tenant was an alcoholic so the marks aren't caused by a shaky hand holding a key…

"Someone picked the lock." John murmured. Of course, the logical things to do would be to call the police- call Lestrade or even Mycroft. Run as far away from the flat as he could. He wasn't armed; he had no back-up, no plan-

No choice.

John dropped the bags on the doorstep, firmly clenching his jaw and slotting the key in the lock.

Immediately, his eyes zeroed in on the carpet, bunched up where the intruder had run in, if he wasn't mistaken. He already was expecting a serial killer of some sort- Mycroft probably had a skeleton key and he doubted Lestrade or someone else from the force would act in this way. And Sherlock and Moriarty were…dead, so- serial killer. Or possibly a crazed fan of the late detective. John ground his teeth together. Neither option made for a pleasant guest.

He didn't have a hope of holding the advantage- the visitor was surely armed and John's own trusty British Army Browning was concealed in a drawer upstairs in the living room. The only advantage he could possibly have would be the element of surprise- that is, if the loiterer hadn't heard him approaching the flat to begin with.

He was careful as he boarded the stairs, avoiding the wood that creaked, making sure he didn't trip on the loose carpet like he had done a hundred times before.

This was it. John nervously smoothed down his shirt, preparing himself for the unknown. He opened the door suddenly.

As if magnetised, his eyes sought out the man rifling through a stack of papers that John knew to be Sherlock's old case files, the last documents concerning Moriarty's criminal web. All he could see was a denim jacket and jeans, although the man was clearly tall and strong.

John's eyes narrowed, flicking to the drawer in the corner. If he could just get his gun. He'd only made one move towards it when the man dropped his papers and turned, shock flooding his face.

"Well, shit." The man said and that was when he _fired._

Had John's military instincts not kicked in, he would have been dead. As it was, he only had time to dive, throwing himself at the desk before a bullet whistled through the air, embedding itself in the wall above the mantelpiece, missing John by inches.

He was scrabbling for his gun, the cold metal that burnt his palm wonderfully reassuring. A second shot rang out, this time finding the desk, making the whole thing shake as a bullet screeched through the wood. John risked a glance over the desk, firing a shot, but his aim was off, hitting the armchair near the man.

John ducked, crawling along on his knees, one hand on the floor and the other clutching the gun. Using the furniture as cover, he inched along the length of the room- if he could get close enough, he could slip into the kitchen and barricade himself there and call for help.

He had more cover than the other man, and could see flashes of him through the furniture- long, denim-clad legs and dark hair. Seeing that hair (either black or just very dark brown, he wasn't sure) his heart skipped a beat- _Sherlock_. But then a very reasonable voice in his head pointed out that Sherlock was dead, and had been for the past two years, and Sherlock wasn't that wide around the shoulders, or that strong. And why would his best friend be opening fire on him anyway? What a stupid thought.

More shots were fired, both John's and the man's. They were getting better, both of them, at anticipating the other's movements, in this dangerous dance. John found shots jumping at his feet, making him duck, dive, and curse. Aside from the occasional swear word, neither man spoke, both going for kill shots. Then John's gun clicked empty and he knew it was over. He could try to outrun or outwit the man's shots, but it would be useless. _And really_, John thought, his fingers caressing the impotent gun as if comforting a lover, _what was the point?_ Sherlock was dead. John had no family, except an alcoholic sister he never saw anyway. No girlfriend. No one to worry. No one to care. Perhaps a quick, painless shot from this stranger would be a blessing.

Slowly, he stood up, raising both hands, the barrel of the gun pointing upwards in a sign of defeat. He estimated the man had used about five bullets and John was confident he hadn't had time to reload. Just one shot left. The difference between life and John's blood staining the floor.

His breathing was heavy in the room, but then again, so was the killer's, both of them clasping guns in sweaty hands, eyeing the other suspiciously.

An armchair (his or Sherlock's, what did it matter?) was bumping against his hip as he navigated his way past the clutter, not looking away from the figure in the room. Now that he was closer, he could see the man better- tall, broad, a fighter, a brawler. Everything about him was imposing, from his short, black hair (not dark brown as he'd originally thought) to the heavy brows framing keen, clever eyes. The man had the proud stance of a marksman; John would bet money on him being a member of the military, like John himself.

As he drew closer, he tried to use Sherlock's methods, deduce what he could. It might just save his life.

_Ripped, faded jeans- not artfully done not deliberate. Been exerting himself- sleeping rough? Short hair, slicked back- military. No shirt underneath jacket- muscular physique supports military theory. Boots are blood-stained, not his own blood, shows no sign of injury…assassin._

"You came here with the sole purpose of killing me, didn't you?" John said without preamble. The armchair was hitting the back of his knees now, so he sank onto it, crossing one leg over the other. He could see he'd surprised the man; the latter's mouth moving silently for a few seconds before he shook his head, waving the gun in a distracted gesture.

"Maybe, yeah- I don't know to, be honest with you, I'm pretty much running on empty here, John."

John bristled, his head snapping up. "You know my name, my address, but I know nothing about you. Doesn't seem…fair, somehow."

That remark dragged an unwilling laugh from the marksman; he tossed his head back, exposing a wide, tanned throat as he guffawed. "_Life_ isn't fair, John. But since you asked so nicely, Captain, the name's Sebastian Moran. _Colonel_ Sebastian Moran."

John gave a sarcastic salute making Moran smile. "Forgive me, Colonel, but I wasn't expecting you," He waved a hand around at the mess, briefly wondering why he was facing his own execution with airy ease. "I'm not used to entertaining guests, you know."

"Hmm…" Moran agreed, scratching at an unshaven jaw with the barrel of his gun. John saw that casual gesture and was tempted to spring up and attempt to wrestle the gun from him while he was distracted, but then the moment passed.

"It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise you're existing, not living. It wasn't only him who died that day, was it?" Colonel Moran's eyes, a dark green, were quietly mocking, a light dancing in them as he watched John.

"Sherlock," John said firmly, refusing to be riled. "Is dead. The, the criminal population can rejoice, he's gone and I'm not taking his place. If you want to kill me, go right ahead but know that you'd just be wasting a bullet."

Moran seemed to consider this, but there was a look on his face John knew all too well. A kind of dangerous desperation, a man with blood on his hands from lives lost or taken long ago, but no purpose anymore. John had protected Sherlock from killers and colds, made him eat, saved his life. But now Sherlock was gone, John was useless. And looking at Moran was like looking at a mirror.

"You seem to know a lot about Sherlock." John said, uncrossing his legs. Moran's eyes immediately tracked the movement, instantly on guard. "Would I be right in thinking that you're affiliated with Jim Moriarty?"

"Yes," Moran whispered. His grip on the gun slackened, his whole body sagging, but then he seemed to catch hold of his emotions, rein them in. "I suppose you could say I was the Watson to his Holmes. I helped him reinforce the order of his empire and I was the one who…"

"Loved him." John finished.

"Yeah. So fucking what? I loved him and, and I know he was a psycho, but that was what I needed, you know? I couldn't just go to a bloody nine-to-five after the army, have kids, a wife. I needed something _more_, something _better_." His head cocked to the side. "You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," John sighed. "I never realised how much I needed Sherlock until he wasn't around. It used to be like…us against the world." He gave a small smile. "I guess the world won."

Sebastian smiled too. John noted he was thinking of the man as Sebastian now, not Moran. And that was dangerous thinking.

"When Jim died, I gathered up all the papers talking about when he went to court. Cut them out, put them in a book. Here I am, a wanted man with my psycho boyfriend dead, and I was making a fucking _scrapbook_."

"I did stuff like that. I don't sleep in my room anymore; I sleep in Sherlock's. I find myself just walking about the flat, holding his favourite shirt." To his surprise (and disgust) John felt his eyes growing moist, a tear rolling down one cheek. Sebastian's form was growing blurry through his tears but he heard the man sigh "John, don't, um…"

"I never told him," John murmured, swiping a shirt sleeve across his face to roughly wipe away the tears. "Never told him I loved him. I still don't know whether he ever cottoned onto it, he must have known _something_, but oh, god, I-"

"You never told him?" Sebastian said, sounding aghast. He hadn't moved from his spot at the end of the room since the conversation had begun and John appreciated this, didn't think he could handle someone's heavy-handed consoling right now. "John, that's just…shitty, you don't even- he didn't know…"

"Sebastian?" John said thickly, meeting the man's eyes.

"Call me Seb. And what is it?"

"Fuck you, _Seb_." And that was when John threw himself at the man.

His full weight hit Seb in force, making the colonel fall back, hitting the floor with a thud. John's useless gun had been left at the other side of the room, but Sebastian's active weapon flew from his grip as he fell, skidding across the floor. John punched his jaw for good measure, revelling in the feeling of being able to pour out his anger, fear and frustration, feelings that had been boiling up inside him for far too long. It was so good that he did it again, Sebastian's rough stubble grazing his knuckle as he did so. Seb groaned but seemed to pull himself together and now it was no-holds-barred, both men in it to win.

John was now straddling Seb, parting his denim jacket to expose his throat, wrapping his hand around it so hard he felt the Adam's apple press at the centre of his palm and the tendons throb. Seb was gasping now. Mouth wide open as John slowly strangled him.

"You took everything from me," John whispered, his voice uneven, applying so much pressure that Seb's eyes rolled like marbles. "You and- you and Moriarty. So, I'm thinking- I may as well kill you."

"Funny," Seb stammered out, wearing a thin smile despite the pain. "I was thinking exactly the same thing."

One thick, muscled arm shot up, long fingers tearing John's hands off his neck. John's vision blurred and his head snapped back as Seb punched him hard in the face- pain blossomed and he tasted a copper tang in his mouth, spitting blood onto Seb's chest.

Perhaps that confession had changed things because as they struggled, punches flying, head-butting and biting, there seemed to be a mutual understanding. Neither went easy on the other- John sported a cut lip and bruise on one lip, while Sebastian received what would be an impressive black eye that time tomorrow. John had managed to hold his own, pinning Seb with his own weight but as he was running a hand over his own face, feeling blood slick on his fingers, Sebastian took the opportunity of the army doctor's distraction, flipping them over so now Seb was looming over him, grinning like a madman.

John looked up into laughing green eyes. sharp teeth and denim brushing John's shirt. Now he was the one gasping, feeling the thick muscles of Seb's thighs bunching up where they were pressed tight against John's hips. The heaviness of the man bearing down on him was making John pant, his breaths short and ragged.

He kicked and struggled but it was in vain, hearing Seb's triumphant laughter and feeling the rasp of his opponent's jeans roughly rubbing against his.

Seb leant down, reaching over John's head, picking something up off the floor. Panic welled up a Seb brought the newly-retrieved gun to John's face, prodding him on the cheek with it.

John felt a strange calm spread through him. He wasn't a religious man, had seen far too much horror at war for that kind of faith, but the thought of his death seemed to sooth him now. He wouldn't be alone anymore- he'd be following Sherlock.

"Do it," he whispered, shutting his eyes. His head fell back; his throat bared as his nape was cradled by Seb's other arm, the limb trapped on the carpet beneath John's head. "Do it, Sebastian. I wouldn't blame you. I've been thinking of it too." He felt cool metal kiss his lips and he gave a wild grin, his eyes closed, and his cut lip stinging as he smiled. But no pain greeted his words so he begged, desperate. "Do it, what, what are you waiting for? DO IT!"

Eyes still shut, he panted through his rage, grimacing at the prickly heat crawling up his, face and getting Seb's uncertain exhales.

"Do it, Seb," he murmured, feeling the metal probing at his lips. He obediently opened them, the heavy barrel resting on his tongue making him slur his words. " 'm beggin' you."

But then the metal was replaced with something else, hot dry lips pressing on his mouth. And then Seb was kissing him.

Sharp teeth were biting at his lips eagerly, while a hot, wet tongue tried to force a way into his mouth.

John's arm flexed, grabbing hold of the limb not currently supporting his head, fingers digging into the skin through the denim, feeling hard muscle jump beneath his digits. His other arm came up to grab hold of Seb's shoulder, pushing him away but Sebastian took no notice, his tongue finally working past John's lips to jab at the doctor's tongue.

John knew he could bite at the offending muscle now licking at his teeth, but he was still slightly in shock- how had they got to this? He was still gripping Seb's shoulder but now he wasn't pushing him, just holding him in place.

The man's tongue raped his mouth, fucking his throat until his lips parted and his mouth grew slack, letting Seb taste and lick to his pleasure. John lay back as his mouth was thoroughly examined, until he could taste Seb on his tongue, in his lips, the traces of blood, alcohol and cigarettes.

Their eyes met and Seb threw off his jacket, revealing a tattooed torso shining with sweat. John let his hands fall from Seb's broad shoulders to his chest, smoothing paths along sweaty pectorals. He was aware of just how responsive Seb's body was to his touch- feeling Seb's nipples harden beneath his palms, and muscles flex under his hands as he tangled his fingers in the dark carpet of chest hair.

Seb broke the kiss with a groan, rocking back so John could feel his erection straining at his jeans.

"Fuck, I'm hard as a rock right now." Seb grinned, grinding his hips against John's, making the blonde man moan.

Seb clearly was a man of action; without waiting for John to reply, he tore the man's shirt open, smiling smugly at the flurry of buttons raining down from the ruined garment. Seb parted the sides of shirt hungrily, eyeing the skin with appreciation before diving down to flick a tongue over John's nipple.

John bucked up, stuttering out a gasp as Seb rolled his nipple between his teeth, licking it playfully and then ducking his head to give a hard bite to John's abs.

John reached up decisively, his fingers weaving through Seb's thick dark hair, pulling him closer.

"Seb," he muttered. "Jack me off."

"I can do one better." Seb grinned, teeth flashing against his tanned skin.

"Oh, oh yeah?" John managed, gasping as Seb palmed his crotch.

"Yup. I can do you."

Seb began to unzip his flies.

John braced himself on his elbows, unable to look away from the marksman's long fingers expertly unbuckling his belt.

"Oh hell," John muttered, seeing Seb's dick for the first time. Eyeing the thick length apprehensively, he couldn't help but wonder how on earth that was going to fit –

"Oh shut up, you might like it." Seb shrugged, his jeans now undone. He playfully reached forward, pulling at the zip on John's own jeans.

John breathed a sigh of relief as his aching hard-on was freed from the material. Seb pushed the jeans do, and the boxer shorts down John's thighs to his ankles, pulling off John's shoes forcefully.

"Take your top off." Seb barked, a hint of his military authority colouring the words. John immediately complied, swallowing down the awkwardness at being naked in front of the stranger.

John nervously looked down at Seb, who was now kissing his way up John's bare legs, mussing up the leg hair and nuzzling his knees.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Aw, shut your trap, Johnny." Seb murmured, closing his eyes, kissing along the thighs and then-

"Ugh!" Seb's mouth suddenly; engulfed his prick, hot wetness tight against his skin, making him tremble, his lips twitching upwards to Seb's lips. John's eyes fell shut and he moaned, pushing up onto Seb's mouth but then the lips slid off his cock to pant against his hip and he whined.

"Please…Seb…"

"Want me to fuck you, Johnny?" Seb's eyes were shining.

John didn't answer; he just bucked up impatiently, squirming as he felt Seb's soft laughter on his flesh. He heard a rustling and cracked open an eyelid to see Seb fumbling for a condom, ripping the packet open with his teeth. John closed his eyes again, shivering as he felt one finger, cold and wet with lubricant, prodding at his buttocks, working its way past the ring of muscle.

"God, you're tight. I feel sorry for poor old Sherlock, never getting to tap that."

John glared at him warningly but it was hard to look intimidating when Seb was fingering him. "Was only trying to get your attention, love. Seriously, I love how tight you are." Seb crooked his finger inside him, making the blonde man gasp. "Hungry for my cock, aren't you?" Seb whispered, sliding another finger in to flex in tandem with the first, opening John up for him.

He couldn't help pushing down on Seb's long, thick fingers, needing more. He sighed in relief ads Seb withdrew his fingers, throwing John's legs over his shoulders, his cock bumping up against John's entrance.

John took a deep breath to relax him, smelling gunpowder and whiskey, blood and sweat, denim. His leg was aching (the limp had come back when Sherlock died) from where it was hitched over Seb's broad shoulder, as the marksman braced himself on the floor. John didn't complain though- after months of Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and even Sargent Donovan asking how he was, how he was coping, to be treated like the man before the accident was bliss.

He wasn't "Sherlock's friend" or the cripple with Seb. He was another soldier, sick of civilian life. And Seb wasn't his enemy, not right now; he was just Seb, the man who was lying upon him, lips brushing John's cheek.

"Fuck," Seb said, and that was when he slammed into John.

John gasped at Sebastian's thick cock filling him, stretching him with a glorious burn. The pain was so welcoming; he let out an exhilarated grin as Seb withdrew almost completely, only to ram his cock home. He encouraged Seb with desperate pleas or laughing taunts "Please, come on, Seb, harder, _harder_- come on, fuck me harder, please, I _need_ you!"

Seb's emerald eyes stared into his brown ones in an unwavering soldier's stare. The gaze was searing him, pinning him in place, as the man fucked him roughly, large, calloused hands grabbing at John's hips, fisting in his hair, squeezing his cock. And John was grabbing at Seb's shoulders, feeling muscle ripple under his fingers, pulling at Seb's chest hair to make him wince and gasp, dragging his fingernails down his back so that Seb's skin was painted with tiger stripes, crimson against the flesh.

"Oh fuck!" John could feel the sensations building, he was going to come. His muscles clenched around Seb's cock as he climaxed, feeling hot wet come exploding from his dick to shoot across his stomach. And then Seb's thrusts had grown deeper, the man's face looking almost pained as he urgently fucked John's clenching arsehole.

"John, I'm- argh!" Seb came with a cry, burying his face in John's shoulder and biting hard on his neck to silence himself belatedly. He rode out his orgasm until every last bit of his seed had spilled into the other man.

John lay still, his hands falling to his sides as Seb clumsily rolled off him, both men trembling with the force of the feelings. Seb collapsed near next to him, so that their chests rose and fell together with each breath, as they lay shoulder-to-shoulder. John let out a slow breath, shifting slightly as spunk, both his and Seb's, trickled down his thighs to pool on the carpet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Seb lighting a cigarette and he smiled.

"Bit cliché." John smirked.

"Want one?" the other man grinned, shaking the box of fags temptingly at John.

"Why not? I've just been thoroughly shagged by my mortal enemy. One smoke can't hurt." Something inside him warmed as Seb smiled at his joke.

"You know, john, I like your style." The room was silent for a few moments as both men inhaled and exhaled, twin spirals of smoke issuing from their lips.

John looked over at Seb- the man had a brilliant profile. John watched the frank, green eyes and firm lips and, noted that Seb must have broken his nose once and the bone hadn't healed properly, making the thing slightly crooked. He wondered when that had happened and then decided it didn't matter.

"Seb, if you hadn't been assigned to kill me and my flatmate, you and I could have been friends."

Seb gave a slim smile. "Who says we can't be friends now? You want some more of my company, John?"

"Oh god, yes!"

"Give me time to reload, John, I already want Round Two with you."


End file.
